


you've done all the things that could kill you somehow

by BlackVultures



Series: sometimes i don't know who i am (i used to hold your hand) [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackVultures/pseuds/BlackVultures
Summary: That’s classic Stevie,the part of him that’s from another time thinks.The stupid punk could be on his deathbed and he’d be asking somebody else if they wanted to lie down.Last time he was on his deathbed it was you that put him there,a darker part of Bucky reminds with a hiss.That’s what you’re good for.





	you've done all the things that could kill you somehow

**Author's Note:**

> (This takes place right after "all my heroes" and will make more sense if you read that one first, but I suppose it could make it as a stand-alone.)
> 
> I'M BACK. Honestly, I couldn't stay away - these two give me so many feelings that I've got to share or I'm afraid I'll explode. That and I got so many lovely comments on my last fic (and ALL THE KUDOS), so I was a little eager to post again. This is a short little ditty that didn't fit with the next fic I'm planning, but I was surprisingly happy with the way it turned out. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Fic title is from "Life Starts Now" by Three Days Grace, and the series title is from "Imaginary Enemy" by The Used.
> 
> (This work is a backdated repost from my old Archive account!)

The Winter Soldier dreams of the familiar weight of a machine gun in his hands, the smoothness of plastic and the press of the stock against his shoulder.

Every weapon he’s ever fired culminates in the pulling of one trigger, and the kickback throws him away like the expendable tool that he is, and he’s falling, down down  _down_  into nothing. He dreams of fire roaring through his veins, of the endless cries of his victims and the slide of blood between metal fingers. It dries in all the joints and cracks and crevices, stains him until he can taste death in the back of his throat, until faceless men are shoving him back into the chair and agony rips through his head and turns him into nothing more than a blank slate and the echo of his own screams.

That’s how Bucky Barnes wakes up—screaming, in Russian and German and Romanian, the different syllables tangling together so that it’s his own language. He bites his own tongue, tastes the blood when it fills his mouth and thinks  _this is what I deserve_.

There’s pressure on his flesh arm and he lashes out, feels something crack under his knuckles and a warm spray of liquid when it hits his skin. The sudden motion of the punch causes him to lose his balance, and he falls. But he doesn’t go a great distance, doesn’t land in a hard pack of snow and feel all the bones in his body shatter at once. He doesn’t hear approaching footsteps, doesn’t pray fervently to a God he hasn’t believed in for years for a quick death.

Bucky’s ass hits the floor of Sam Wilson’s guest room and the impact jars him back to reality. He blinks away impressions of explosions from his vision and stares up at the bed with a dumbfounded sort of horror, blood dribbling absently down his chin. What he’s seeing can’t be real, he decides, even if memories of earlier—dinner with Sam, shenanigans of a cartoon sponge, the  _kissing_ —are coming back to him now.

_Steve_  is on the bed, carefully feeling his own nose as he wipes redness off his face with the hem of his T-shirt. His hair is sleep-rumpled and he scoots closer to the edge of the bed like he’s going to get on the floor, face full of concern.

When Bucky scrambles backward in response, he takes the hint, but does ask, “Buck, are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

Bucky lets out a hysterical noise and claps a hand over his mouth.

_That’s classic Stevie_ , the part of him that’s from another time thinks _. The stupid punk could be on his deathbed and he’d be asking somebody else if they wanted to lie down._

_Last time he was on his deathbed it was you that put him there_ , a darker part of Bucky reminds with a hiss.  _That’s what you’re good for._

Bucky’s eyes go wide as they dart around, looking for an escape route—he can’t stay here, not now, not after this, he was stupid to ever think he could. The door means he’d have to go through the rest of the house and could run into opposition, but the window, the one he came through earlier, that could—

“Hey, hey—Bucky, look at me.” Steve moved while he was distracted, and Bucky startles when he feels the other man’s fingers on his wrist, gently pulling the hand that’s bruised and is sticky with Steve’s blood away from his mouth. Then those fingers are under his chin, tilting his head up while giving him plenty of time to resist, a thumb swiping away the coppery liquid on his face. He meets Steve’s eyes reluctantly, and whatever Steve sees in his is enough to make his expression soften. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were having a nightmare, and I shouldn’t have grabbed you, it was my fault—”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky cuts in, barely able to speak around the razor blades in his throat. His tongue is fuzzy, the wound he made with his teeth already healing. He drops his gaze to Steve’s knees, can’t look at all that kindness and understanding when he doesn’t deserve it. “No. I hurt you. It’s me. I’m sorry, I’ve got to—”

The kindness is still there, but it’s pained. “If you think you have to leave, if it would be better for you, then go ahead. If you think I  _want_  you to leave…” Steve pauses, his hand resting against the side of Bucky’s neck, and that should feel threatening, not comfortable. “You’re wrong.”

Bucky stares at him for several beats, and can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe that someone’s giving him a second chance, instead of shocking him into submission or sending him off on a mission without caring if he lives through it. He licks the blood off his lips, brows pulling down as he tries to think of a response.

He settles on, “You’re crazier than I am.”

“Probably. Especially since you’re not crazy, Buck.”

Steve gives Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze and Bucky can’t find the words to protest that earnestness. The chill he’d felt sneaking back into his bones dissipates, and he crawls back onto the bed. Bucky’s going to take full advantage of this comfort while it’s allowed, he decides, and drops on top of Steve like so much dead weight. He’s careful not to let his metal arm touch the warmth under him, leaves it spread out on the mattress.

Steve lets out an  _oof_  when Bucky lands, but he doesn’t seem to mind the position. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s back—not like a trap, but like a barrier—and they go back to sleep, twisted together as they would’ve been a long time ago.

 

~***~

 

When Steve wakes up a few hours later, there’s cheerful sunlight streaming in through the window and he’s alone.

His eyes slam shut, a wave of nausea rolling through him, followed closely by tendrils of dread. He’s sure that when he opens them again, Bucky will still be gone and the barely-there dent in the bed beside him will belong to a phantom, a ghost. It’s a dream Steve’s had before, countless gut-wrenching times, so why should this time be any different?

But it  _is_  different, Steve realizes, because the smell of pancakes is drifting in from the kitchen and he hears a very familiar voice cursing in Russian. The sense of relief he feels is enough to make him curl in on himself briefly, his heart pounding double-time against his sternum in a way that would’ve been cause for alarm before the serum. He simultaneously wants to laugh and cry, because yesterday was real—Bucky’s  _alive_ , and he’s here, and he didn’t disappear with the darkness.

It’s literally a dream come true for Steve, and it’s not perfect but it’s  _his_. That’s stone one, and they can build on it.

He sucks in a shuddering breath and rises.


End file.
